My First Byline

Growing up in Little Havana, my life often unfolded to the soundtrack of my abuela’s slippers shuffling across the kitchen tiles and the crackly radio playing Celia Cruz on repeat. Back then, I didn’t know anything about bylines or deadlines—in those days, the biggest pressure I faced was perfecting my mango peeling technique without leaving half the fruit stuck to the pit. But writing? That was my secret crush. Think back to your first childhood crush—maybe it was your best friend in kindergarten or some cartoon character you’re embarrassed to admit was kind of cute (hello, Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid). That’s what writing was for me. A thrill that I couldn’t quite put into words, but it made my heart race just the same.

Fast forward to a muggy day in Miami several years later, and there I was, staring at my first published article, my name right at the top. It wasn’t Pulitzer material, but seeing my byline for the first time? It hit me like the rush of spotting someone across the room and knowing they’re about to change your life. Except in this case, the “someone” was a 400-word piece on the Calle Ocho Festival, and the life-changing moment included a side of plantar fasciitis from covering miles of parade routes in new shoes. Let me take you through that story, because while your first publication might not be a love story, it does come with its own dose of romance.

The One That Got Me Started

Picture this: me, 21 years old, fresh out of journalism school, armed with enthusiasm, a spiral notebook, and absolutely zero idea of what I was doing. When I landed a freelance piece covering that year’s Calle Ocho, I thought, Finally! This is my moment. I’d spent my childhood attending the festival, but now I was on the other side, tasked with capturing its chaotic magic for a small bilingual newspaper—it was essentially the journalistic equivalent of going from swiping right to planning an entire first date itinerary in one move.

The first few hours were like a bad first date: awkward, overly sweaty, and filled with second-guessing. My recorder didn’t work—not because of a technical glitch but because I forgot to charge the batteries. My ancient heels (borrowed from my cousin for that “professional look”) turned my feet into two tamales wrapped in leather. But here’s the thing—you stumble. You laugh. You figure it out. Much like relationships, writing works best when you embrace the mess.

I scribbled quotes furiously in my sketchpad while balancing a pastelito in one hand. I gulped down coladas (if you’ve never tried Cuban coffee, imagine jet fuel with a deliciously sweet kick), probably way too many, but adrenaline and caffeine are basically the journalist’s starter pack. And by the end of the day, I had what I needed—a handful of anecdotes, photos, and enough details to transport my readers straight into the heart of Little Havana.

Publishing it Felt Like a Proposal

A week later, I saw my name on that article, and it was everything. I stared at the screen like it was my first love letter, my cheeks hurting from how hard I was smiling. If you’ve ever gotten a text from someone you’re totally into and their name pops up alongside an inside joke? That level of giddiness—but multiplied by ten and served with a side of arroz con frijoles.

I won’t lie; my first byline wasn’t perfect. I used the word “vibrant” about eight too many times (rookie mistake), and the photo captions were misspelled in two places—classic new-kid errors. But it didn’t matter because, for those 15 minutes, I was the Beyoncé of the local news desk. My family celebrated with cafecito and a batch of homemade croquetas that my tía swore were her specialty, but we all knew she bought them from Versailles.

Firsts have a magic that can’t be duplicated. Whether it’s your first kiss, first road trip, or first byline, it leaves a permanent mark. For me, it was that moment of seeing “Isabela Martinez” in print and knowing that my story—my words—had made it out into the world.

Lessons From the Byline (That Totally Apply to Life and Love)

Sure, falling for writing is less complicated than actual romance (my laptop never ghosted me or invented an imaginary girlfriend—looking at you, Disaster Date circa 2015). But there are lessons I’ve gained from my first writing milestone that apply equally well to relationships and chasing your dreams:

  1. Embrace the Chaos
    Writing my first article was messy, just like relationships can be. My first dates often involved split checks and forgetting names two minutes into introductions. Point is, don’t let imperfection stop you from showing up—you don’t need to have all the answers or the prettiest sentences right away.

  2. Celebrate Progress, Not Perfection
    Was my first piece flawless? Absolutely not. But it was the beginning of something great. Whether you’re writing, dating, or asking for that promotion at work, remember that the first step forward is worthy of a celebration—misspellings and all.

  3. Trust Yourself
    In journalism, like in love, confidence is key. My abuela used to say, “El que no se arriesga, no gana” (those who don’t take risks don’t win), and she was right. That first story taught me that it’s okay to feel scared or underprepared. Trust your instincts, say yes, and jump in. The rest will follow.

  4. Get Comfortable With Being Seen
    The first byline meant letting people read my work—and, by extension, see me. Vulnerability in writing (and life) can be scary, but it’s also where the magic happens. Put your name on it, share your story, and show up, flaws and all.

The Next Chapter

If my first byline was a whirlwind romance, my relationship with writing now feels like a much deeper kind of love. It’s not always exciting, but it’s steady, fulfilling, and worth every ounce of effort. And just like in dating or relationships, there’s always room to learn, grow, and show up for the things—and people—you care about.

So, here’s my advice: fall in love with something (or someone) that makes you feel alive. Say yes to opportunities, even if your recorder’s dead or your shoes don’t fit. And when it’s all over, whether you’re looking at a headline, a new relationship, or just the start of a great story, remember to celebrate yourself—because every beginning is worth it.